


Random Encounters (Don't Happen)

by doctormissy



Series: What if...? [5]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Crossover, Crushes, Domestic, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Post-Episode: s10e12 The Doctor Falls, Q is Their Companion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 11:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11508420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: The first time Q met the Doctor and his girlfriend was before he had met James Bond for the first time. It was just a strange, random encounter on the roof of MI6 HQ one sunny morning.The second time they crossed paths, he thought the universe must be kidding him.The third time, it was not so much of a coincidence anymore.The fourth time was an ordinary Saturday.The fifth time, the Doctor and Missy were late.The sixth time, they were even later, and they came with a surprise that changed his life in greater dimensions he could imagine.





	Random Encounters (Don't Happen)

**Author's Note:**

> So instead of continuing all those WIPs (I'm looking at you, _We live in a world of deceit._ ) you all wait for me to update, I just had to write the first stupid idea I got that just happens to turn into the longest single-chapter fic I've written. Well done, me. Enjoy my two OTPs together in one fic, it's the only opportunity you'll get, haha.
> 
> Also, this thing is me crossing a few things out of my to-write list:
> 
>   1. utterly oblivious 00Q _finally_ get together after someone tells them they love each other 
>   2. Q's crush on Bond is stronger than everyone thought, and he's not even ashamed 
>   3. 5+1 
>   4. Bond/DW crossover in which Q is the companion 
>   5. Twissy kidfic
> 


**Random Encounters (Don’t Happen), or Five Times Q Met the Doctor and One Time James Was There Too**

 

The first time Q met the Doctor (and his girlfriend who might or might not be entirely bonkers) was before he had met James Bond for the first time. It was just a strange, random encounter on the roof of MI6 HQ one sunny morning.

Though, was there such a thing as random encounters, ever?

 

Q took a long, nice drag from his cigarette. He closed his eyes and let the cloud of smoke escape his mouth slowly. His eyelids burst open again; sunlight brushed his lashed and painted them orange. It was a beautiful and sporadic occasion, watching the sunrise in London. He wanted to enjoy the break fully while it still lasted. 004’s explosive lipstick won’t build itself, after all.

He took another drag. It was a bad habit, smoking, but after fifteen hours of sitting on his arse, it was magnificent. He loved these quiet moments of standing alone on the roof in the brisk morning and watching the Thames flow quietly beneath. No one ever interrupted them, not even Eve or the Double-Ohs.

Except, actually, he might have spoken too soon. There was a sound.

Creaky sounds unlike anything he has ever heard ruined the peaceful solitude and made him sigh exasperatedly. It was as if someone rode a piece of metal up and down a piano string if he must put it in words. Frowning, he turned round.

A semi-transparent, blue... telephone box was materialising right atop of the headquarters building out of thin air. According to laws of physics, no such thing was possible. The Quartermaster’s rational mind was spinning at the speed of light.

Was this a dream? Has he fallen asleep on his desk after a painfully long working shift? Has one of his minions or perhaps an operative drugged his tea as an act of vengeance, and was this a hallucination produced by his science-fiction loving brain?

Either way, the box did not disappear when he closed his eyes and reopened them a few instants later. To his rising frustration, the thing became tangible now. POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX, the white sign above the door read. Above a door that opened.

A woman peered out of it and looked round with a certain amount of carefulness. A plain black dress hugged her form tightly, covering her from neck to toe. Her hair was tied in a ponytail. No jewellery. By no means, his agents would categorise her as gorgeous.

When she assessed the environs, she pressed her lipstick-painted lips together.

‘I told you this was _not_ Solaris II, Doctor!’ she shouted at someone who was, apparently and impossibly, inside the box. Then she turned her head at them. ‘But you. Weren’t. Listening.’

Q certainly wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of the scolding. If syllables could murder...

He still hasn’t moved or made a sound, eyes transfixed on the whole scene before him. Ashes fell down from his cigarette, slowly drifting in the wind.

‘I am sure I’ve entered the right coordinates, Missy,’ the person inside the box, definitely a man, said, loudly enough for Q to overhear. He was trying to remain calm and not break into an argument.

‘Well, clearly, you didn’t!’ the woman called Missy yelled. Her Scottish accent was thicker than his. ‘But. It’s not worth quarrelling over; just give me your screwdriver and a sandwich. I can fix this.’

‘I’m not letting you near the controls.’

‘Do as you please, Doctor, but if you continue to be hell-bent on keeping your _man pride_ intact under the guise of “necessary security measures”, we will never get where we—oh, pardon, _you_ —want to,’ she raised her voice again. Q was left more bemused than five seconds ago.

He loved a good mystery, and those two strangers with an inexplicable box intrigued the cogs inside his mind deeply. He forgot about the fag altogether, and the heat burnt his fingers. With a hiss, he dropped it and quenched it with a shoe.

‘And I still want a sandwich. You can start there and make me one while I take a walk. And no cucumbers!’

Only now it occurred to Q, they had a security breach. He should call M instantaneously. He’s been the Quartermaster for 23 days and six hours, give or take; he couldn’t balls it up because he was _curious_. However, his hand did not respond to the neural impulse in spite of his internal red alerts breaking out all over.

Missy stepped outside, her hands on her hips. The skirt had slashes on each side, so black cotton danced around her legs in the wind, revealing laced black boots on rather high heels.

The man did not follow, probably having obliged to her snack request.

Q pulled out his gun and aimed it at the woman. She halted, finally noticing him. She smiled and put her hands up in the air without an incentive on Q’s side.

With an envelope of fake sweetness round every word, she asked, ‘Hey you, little human. Where are we, and what year is it?’ She as if missed the whole idea of being at gunpoint. ‘I’m trying to prove a point here.’

‘Madam, I need you and your friend to come with me. This is unauthorised trespassing on government property!’ he shouted, stepping forward.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, but we aren’t going anywhere. We don’t have time for that, overthrowing governments,’ she shouted with a grin. She slowly put her hands down again, hoping Q wouldn’t register her doing so. He did. ‘Now answer my question, and I might let you go unharmed.’

‘This is MI6 Headquarters, 18 September 2012,’ Q answered, still bemused albeit authoritative. ‘And whoever in hell you may be, lady, you’re under arrest. Both of you.’

‘You still don’t get the point, do you? No, darling, we are not.’ Missy talked as though he were a child. A motherly tone mixed with fake sugar wrapped around a threat. ‘You’ve proved to be very useful.’

She made a curtsy and turned on her heel, her ponytail swinging from side to side like a pendulum.

Q cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. Alas, his marksmanship was never at top levels.

‘Au revoir!’ Missy waved her fingers at him as she hopped inside the box. She gave Q a bloody wink.

 He broke into a run, but it was too late to do anything. The door was already shut, and he was left with vain attempts at shooting at the box. But even if he did hit it, the projectile would only ricochet off it and fall on the concrete in front of it because the wooden box was, somehow, bulletproof.

Q heard Missy and the enigmatic Doctor talk about sandwiches and his incompetence in piloting the TARDIS, whatever that was, before the lantern at the top began to blink and the box dematerialised, the process accompanied by the same annoying wheezing.

Q stood there, out of breath and cartridge, contemplating what has just happened. He seriously hoped he would wake up in a few seconds.

The empty roof and a gun in his hand did not, however, cease to be real. He told himself to just forget it has ever happened, and retreated to his office.

 

* * *

 

 

The second time they crossed paths, he thought the universe must be kidding him.

It was long after Oberhauser and NineEyes and Bond’s retirement, which lasted for four months, when he literally bumped into the very identical blue phone booth that was supposed to have disappeared from the streets in the early sixties. Q was on his way home from work, with hands full of grocery shopping bags and an umbrella, and mind preoccupied with the progress of 009’s Seoul mission. What was the damned thing even doing in the middle of a street in Islington at 11:34 PM?

What _was_ the damned thing to begin with?

 

‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ he cursed as he collapsed on the cold, wet ground in a pile of apples, pastry, and cat food. The brolly ended up in a nearby puddle. The brolly was a reason why he had missed the unexpected obstacle in the first place—it covered his entire field of vision, and if he wanted to see where he was going, he had to lift it up, which caused drops of water to find their way on his glasses. An impasse, really.

Q collected himself as quickly and gracefully as possible in such ludicrous situation. He quickly gathered the stray groceries and aforementioned umbrella with the intention to carry on in his way home, but then he noticed what it was that had him end up on the pavement.

The box. The bloody blue box from 2012.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’

The door opened with the same squeak. A frowning man with a mop of grey hair on his head looked out of it and straight at Q. His eyebrows were very thick.

‘Did you knock?’ he asked. At first, Q couldn’t find words.

‘Um, no, sir. I got carried away in thought and accidentally ran into your box. Blimey!’ He chuckled nervously. ‘Good night.’

Q bowed his head in goodbye and disappeared under the umbrella’s canopy. He stepped aside to walk round the box and ahead. The man, oddly enough, stopped him.

‘I have a question for you.’

Q took two steps backwards. He peeped from underneath his mud-covered umbrella. This incident was peculiar at most, and he just wanted to go home and forget about it _again_. However, ‘Yes?’

‘Come in,’ the man said, inviting Q in with a wave of his hand. The frown metamorphosed into a tiny smile. ‘Missy’s in the shower.’

It was Q who frowned now, not quite certain what to think about the request and, well, everything about the box and the two people. This whole situation screamed _danger_.

But he was just an old man, right? Q had his gun if need be. If he turned out to be a terrorist out to kill him and collect the bounty. He could as well consider this field training.

Thus, he entered the booth.

Q wouldn’t think of what he found inside even in the wildest of dreams. His jaw dropped all the way down. He almost dropped the Sainsbury’s bags again, too. It was no dark, cramped, little space with a telephone on the door as he would expect. There were glass floors, staircases, corridors, bookcases, and something of a control panel with shining buttons and levers in the midst. Orange lights illuminated metal walls decorated with small hexagons, and rotors painted with illegible symbols spun above the panel. But mainly, it was bigger on the inside.

So many questions ran around Q’s head. His overwhelmed brain somehow condensed them into one: ‘Are you a wizard?’ The Doctor—Q recalled his name that wasn’t exactly a name, but neither was Q, for that matter—arched an eyebrow. ‘From Hogwarts,’ he added.

It was the stupidest thing he could ever say to anybody. He mentally questioned the integrity of his mind—but then again, he stood inside an actual spaceship.

‘No, we are Time Lords, silly,’ the woman, Missy, said. She has just entered the room, wearing an oversized baby blue shirt, probably the Doctor’s. Her dark hair fell loosely on her shoulders, soaked with water. ‘ _That_ is just a catchpenny book for children.’

‘Time Lords? There is a race called _Time Lords_?’

‘It’s a rank, not a species. Now, I’m going to the observatory. Call if you need anything; I’ll probably stay there for a few days.’ Missy trod to the Doctor and brushed a hand against his shoulder before walking away. ‘Always love to feast my eyes on planets I could rule or destroy,’ she whispered, and when she reached the doorway, she added, ‘Calm down, Doctor, I’m joking. _Or not_.’

Q had no idea what was their game, but the woman’s actions did nothing but restore the original aura of confusion around this spaceship and its inhabitants.

The Doctor spun around with arms broadly outstretched. ‘This is the TARDIS! Our space-time capsule. I am the Doctor, and she’s the Mistress. What’s your name?’

He must say he begrudged them the possession of a transcendental space-time capsule with an observatory and God-knows-how-many other astounding chambers hidden in there. They had the universe at their feet. It must have been beautiful.

‘Andrew Mouton, but I go by Q,’ he answered.

‘That’s a good name, Q. Very simple.’ The Doctor made his way upstairs. The was a blackboard on the wall. He pointed at it with a chalk he conjured up from somewhere in his pocket. There was a sketch of a spherical apparatus and closer view of some components and circuits, all drawn with a white chalk. ‘Anyway, back to the question.What do you make of this?’

Q looked him in the eye. There was something old and mysterious reflecting in the Time Lord’s orbs. ‘May I ask why? And why me?’

‘No reason. As you said, you just accidentally ran into my box.’ Q refused to believe that. As he said before, the ship could cross time, and for a time traveller, a coincidence ceased to exist.

He must have known _something_ —and yet, he pretended to be innocent. So did Q.

He took a closer look at the drawings, because what the hell. He was probably going to wake up with no memory of this anyway. He inspected each part carefully and narrowed his eyes at the small captions written in uppercase.

‘It’s a spatial regulator,’ the Doctor said and pulled a material model of one from his pocket. It was made of a glossy extraterrestrial alloy, ten times smaller than the sketch. ‘And you see, I need to figure out what’s wrong with it.’

He handed it to Q, who had to put his bags and umbrella down first before taking it in his hand. His thin fingers turned it in every direction carefully. As far as he and his two PhDs were concerned, it looked like a very difficult mechanical puzzle he liked to construct for fun.

‘Let me guess: for a reason, you require my assistance, and the reason will remain unknown to me.’

The Doctor walked over to a coffee table, on which lay a book with a very old, disintegrating cover. It was written in the same indecipherable scribble Q assumed was the language of Time Lords. He opened it, and that raised a cloud of dust.

‘Well, I need someone to make tea and hand me the tools, now when Bill and Nardole are gone.’

Whoever those people were. If they were people at all, that is.

‘What about Missy?’ Q argued. He was not going to be the Time Lord’s servant. Let his wife, or whoever she was, take care of it.

The Doctor, as per expectations, came up with an excuse. ‘She is… preoccupied.’

So he was hiding something, should we pass the obvious notion of thinking everybody already knows everything.

‘No, Doctor, she’s not.’ _She said she’d spend a couple of days in the observatory a minute ago, so surely she doesn’t have anything that important to do._ ‘Ask her to help you. I must go.’

He laid the device on the wooden table. The Doctor failed to notice the sound it made.

He found the page he was searching for. He devoured its contents with his eyes quickly. Simultaneously, he said, ‘Go where? Everybody’s in such rush these days. Don’t you ever go for walks or read books anymore?’

Q peeped into the guide ( _The Technology of Time Engines_ ). The only object he could recognise was an inexact image of the regulator at the bottom of a page.

‘It’s late. My cat needs feeding.’

That was one thing. What he omitted to mention was that 007 was beating up a gang of human traffickers as they spoke, and the Quartermaster of MI6 had to be kept abreast of the mission’s progress, naturally.

Every second he could spare, naturally.

‘Late? I didn’t notice.’ The Doctor turned over a dusty page. He seemed to be none the wiser.

Q squirmed on the spot. As fascinating the yet undiscovered secrets of the TARDIS were, he couldn’t let himself be drawn in all of that. It was another world; his world was MI6. He couldn’t leave that—leave 007. It wasn’t even a hard decision.

‘It’s ten to midnight. It was a pleasure meeting you, Doctor.’ Q picked up his things and turned to leave. The wet umbrella nearly fell out of his arms again.

‘But this is a time machine. I can get you back an hour ago.’

Darn, the offer was so tempting. He has studied quantum physics at university. One part of him told him that he ought to learn more about time travel, and the other kept convincing him to run. Which one would prove stronger?

‘I appreciate your offer, Doctor, but I handle firewalls and engineer weapons. I know nothing of spatial regulators.’

It wasn’t about that, but he has always been one for double-checking and finding out one’s true intentions. Some said he would make a great Double-Oh if it weren’t for the poor combat skills.

The Doctor looked up from the book, a finger bookmarking a particular line of circles. The owlish frown was back. ‘I hate weapons. You work for the military, Q?’

That was an unexpected turn of events. But Q has, somehow, partially presumed this topic would be brought up at some point. He blinked repeatedly. ‘No, I work for the Secret Intelligence Service, and my boss is probably going to hang me if he finds out I’ve told that to a madman with a box.’

He still hasn’t left. The results of this confrontation might be either good or catastrophic.

The Doctor slammed the book closed. ‘It’s no wonder you _humans_ keep starting wars and getting into conflicts when you are like this.’

‘How would you know what we are like, Doctor?’ Q asked bitterly.

The Doctor got up. He may claim he hated weapons, but the look he gave Q now was very alike Missy’s murdering glance. Intimidating to the bone. ‘I am much older than you, son. I’ve seen Earth be born and rise and fall and colonise the entire universe. I’ve saved your human arses more times than you could count to in an hour. If it weren’t for me, you’d all be dead, or enslaved, but that’s pretty much the same thing, isn’t it? Now, I can forget about this and take you on a trip to meet your favourite inventor or king or poet and show you the universe, because that’s probably the most interesting thing to ever happen to someone like you, or you can get out. It’s your choice. Decide quickly.’

Frankly, Q was impressed when the Doctor laid his cards on the table. Curiosity killed the cat, but his cat was alive and well as of yet. So he decided.

‘I will help you with your spatial regulator under two conditions,’ he said, holding out two fingers. A plastic bag slid down his arm and swayed back and forth on his elbow. The cross expression on the Doctor’s face lingered.

‘I am listening,’ he said.

With each statement, Q lowered a finger. ‘I get to meet Alan Turing, and I am back home by midnight.’

 

* * *

 

 

The third time, it was not so much of a coincidence anymore.

 

It was two AM, and Q was still in his laboratory. His eyelids were heavy with sleep. He could barely keep them open, but he had to, bloody hell! 007 was going on a mission tomorrow—wait, today—and the fountain pen that could throw poisoned darts _and_ function as a camera needed yet so much fine-tuning.

The tea in Q’s periodic table mug has long got cold, and all of his staff left hours ago.

He was actually thankful for that when he heard the sound of the TARDIS’ handbrakes. He came alive at once, pricking up his ears. The ship was materialising in the centre of the old bunker.

The Doctor, followed by Missy, walked out of it once the bulb at the top of it went out. They were wearing the same clothes, only Missy’s hair was in an elegant up-do now.

From Q’s perspective, the trip to Bletchley Park happened 12 days ago. How many days or weeks or hours have passed in the TARDIS?

‘So _this_ is the infamous MI6,’ she said, flourishing an umbrella. She briefly assessed the whereabouts of their landing. ‘I think it needs a bit of redecorating, don’t you?’

‘Would you fancy another adventurous trip in the TARDIS?’ the Doctor asked at the same time, his accent thick on the Rs. He grinned.

‘I think it does indeed, but alas, they cut down the budget,’ he replied to Missy’s remark with an ironic smile. ‘And I’m afraid I can’t go anywhere with you, I have a project to finish.’ He put his glasses on the desk and rubbed his tired eyes with his hands. ‘And five hours to do so.’

He closed his eyes and uttered a sigh. He did not see Missy walk to his collection of old, broken, or unfinished appliances and inspect them closely. Then her interest went over to him, and he looked at her and the Doctor standing behind her.

‘What are you building, Quincey?’

She was much more indulgent to the whole spies-and-weapons matter than the Doctor. She was well informed about the business, knew her way around. But she also kept calling him _that_ , and he hated it.

Q picked up the gadget and showed it to her. ‘A pen that can also take pictures and shoot poison darts in cases of emergency, for an agent who’s flying to Rio this morning. I really must finish it,’ he answered.

He needed more time—or better yet, more time to sleep.

‘You keep forgetting two things, darling: we have a time machine, and I _love_ small toys that can cause massive destruction.’

‘Also, we kind of need your help again. You’re very… smart.’

 _For a human_ , was what the Doctor did not say. Q didn’t have to be a telepath to figure that one out.

Missy was right. So in the end, he went with them and didn’t even know how and why exactly.

 

He returned to his office at six in the morning, after a trip to 26th century Mars and nine hours’ worth of sleep. There were stars on the ceiling, exactly like in his and his brother’s old bedroom.

When he checked the internal pocket of his anorak, he found a tiny black box wrapped in red ribbon safely tucked in there, with the pen and post-it note written in Missy’s neat handwriting inside. He smiled.

The smile widened because, of course, Bond had to decide he would endow Q with his presence a whole half-hour earlier, that bastard. He had to try really hard to cover the blush that was spreading across his cheeks when he thanked him for the unexpected gift with the usual flirtatious tone in his voice and sparks in his blue eyes.

(“I thought you don’t go in for that anymore.” Well, there were a few exceptions to make when a certain agent’s birthday is next week.)

 

* * *

 

 

The fourth time was a Saturday. It’s been months since that time on the roof and weeks since Mars. Q didn’t even have the opportunity to thank Missy for her help with the pen that had served its purpose perfectly on multiple occasions and actually came back to him intact.

There _is_ a first time for everything, apparently.

 

Q had a well-deserved day off, and he was alone in his flat. Tesla, his cat, was his only companion. There was no crisis going on at work, so the two of them allowed themselves to relax and watch old sci-fi films on DVDs. With a tub of ice cream, because 007 and his affairs were driving him crazy, and maybe a little too jealous, and he was in too much stress to forget about him another way, so why not be a teen in an American comedy, right.

He was just thinking if 007 perhaps liked this sort of films too when the typical whoosh-whoosh sound of the TARDIS derailed the train of thought. The ship landed straight in his bedroom. There was absolutely nothing outrageous about that.

Q practically threw the ice cream on his coffee table already abundant in empty glasses and old newspapers. The spoon ended up inside the tub with a clink. He sprinted to the room, ignorant of his inappropriate apparel consisting of loose shorts and a T-shirt with an imprint of a carbon atom. Tesla meowed twice but maintained his position on the armrest.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked the Time Lords peevishly, never mind the barrier of closed doors.

He has been like this for the past two days. Morose. Because of who else than the infuriating blond agent who hadn’t returned any of the equipment with which Q had outfitted him. He also flirted with both him and two of his minions shamelessly, at once, and he even was as forward as to show off his (gorgeous) form in a (beautifully but inappropriately) close-fitting training top in front of them on purpose to see if they were looking, which they of course were, or at least he was. Then, however, he went on a date with “an old acquaintance” because that’s what James Bond does. But hey, c’est la vie.

Q stopped in the doorway. The left side of the blue door opened, and the Doctor marched out of the TARDIS. For some reason, he was wearing sunglasses. It added to the ridiculousness of that wannabe-punk image of his.

‘Can’t I just stop by the place you live at? Is this the place you live at?’

He folded the sunglasses into his jacket’s pocket.

‘Yes, this is the place I live at. How did you even find it?’ He leant against the doorframe. With a frown forming on his brow, he folded his arms. ‘And where is Missy?’

‘The last time I checked, she was still in bed,’ the Doctor replied to the latter. Sans the polite request, he sat on Q’s unmade bed and started smoothing the creases on his light blue jersey absently. ‘I can find everything if I want to, Q. Most of the time. Well, sometimes. Anyway, I thought you might want to go on a trip again.’

‘Merely a trip? Don’t you need me to fix any component of your insanely complex time machine for you or something?’

Q wasn’t in a mood for visiting galaxies far, far away, let alone doing more work after the 48-hour shift he spent in Q-Branch in favour of satisfying the agent’s whims.

‘No, I don’t think so. I thought it would be nice, that’s all.’ The Doctor’s distant look rapidly flicked to an excited grin. He got up and waltzed to the TARDIS. The hand that lured Q in was indeed tempting.

And well, a proper distraction might be precisely what he needed. ‘Alright then. Take me to the future, somewhere relaxing.’ He pushed off the jamb and headed toward the blue box. The ice cream tub remained on the coffee table to melt, forgotten.

‘Your wish is my command,’ said the Doctor, repeating the words Missy once said to him on that giant spaceship full of Cybermen.

‘And please tell me you have some clothes that would fit me in there. This outfit is plainly hideous.’ Q pinched the grey T-shirt and let it go again, the fabric gaining another crease. He furrowed his nose at it. That was not a T-shirt to be remembered in.

‘Go down the stairs, turn left, then right by the kitchen, left again, and enter the second door on the right.’ Q will totally remember the directions.

He tried.

In the end, he managed to find the gigantic wardrobe quite quickly, but the orientation within it was not so quick and easy. There were so many floors filled with so many dresses and outfits, it took ten minutes to locate what was at least a little alike his style and size.

He chose a pair of brown checked trousers, a deep blue shirt, and a maroon tie. He put a tweed jacket over it and returned to the console room. Once there, the Doctor gave his clothes a once-over.

‘You remind me of somebody I’d swear I’ve met,’ he noted, ‘but I can’t quite place the face.’

Missy has already arrived and occupied the chair as ever. This time, she was wearing a long burgundy skirt, a black blouse tucked into it, a black leather jacket, and a chignon. The only difference in the Doctor’s clothes was a light pink T-shirt.

‘Bow ties, funny hair, flailing arms, says “Geronimo” a lot,’ she hinted, imitating the moves of fixing a bow tie and waving her arms around crazily. Then she turned to Q and lowered her voice, but not enough for him not to hear. ‘This regeneration of his seems to be having an odd case of sclerosis, it gets ridiculous sometimes.’

Oh yes, regenerations. The first time Q was in the TARDIS, the Doctor had answered all of his many questions regarding Time Lords and extraterrestrial beings in general, if reluctantly, and the convenient matter of regeneration had been mentioned as well. He had refused to show pictures, though, therefore Q couldn’t have known this particular outfit, or a part of it, had been worn by him regularly in the past.

‘Sclerosis? I’m not sclerotic!’ the Doctor objected, but to no avail. Missy only repeated her words.

‘Where are we heading to?’ she added and stood up. The Doctor circled the console until he came to the computer.

He said, ‘Let me handle this one.’ He typed almost as quickly as Q. Almost.

Q went to the now empty armchair and pulled out his mobile, no longer paying attention to what was going on in the centre of the room. He _had to_ hack the CCTV cameras in Warsaw and see how was 007 doing. He might have had promised himself not to do so until the evening, but well, he wasn’t very good at keeping promises when they concerned Bond, was he?

He also remotely activated the tracker in his Walther, assuming he still had it, to locate him and make finding him in the streets easier. He was fully authorised to do that; 007 did not need to know.

Q found the gun and hopefully 007 at the South-African embassy. Ah, that did not bode well. He _wasn’t_ supposed to end up there. Q was tempted to call R and make her give him what for—but there was no point anyway, so he refrained from doing it. He got inside the building to see if it really was that bad.

Then the signal jammed and he lost the image for a few seconds until it restarted and happened again. Q frowned. It was the time vortex; they were further and further from present day England.

He had to admit, he was worried. Both about Bond and the outcome of his mission.

‘Here we are, 25th century London,’ announced the Doctor happily and broke Q’s bubble of anxious thoughts. ‘Right in the midst of Hyde Park. This little island of greenery among tarmac and concrete can outlive anything! It’s wonderful what you humans are capable of when you have something to stand by.’

‘Hmm,’ Q murmured. His ears caught words like “25th century”, “Hyde Park”, and “wonderful”, but he did not pay any special attention to the commentary. ‘Could you perhaps do something about the connection in here? It keeps jamming.’

‘There is a whole different world to discover out there, and yet you are glued to your phone,’ replied the Doctor. He stepped away from the console. ‘I thought you were different than all those youngsters these days.’

Missy looked at him from behind the rotor cylinder. ‘Don’t you see he’s having _girl trouble_ , Doctor?’

Q snorted. ‘Not exactly _girl trouble_ ,’ he corrected her, ‘but you could say that.’

‘Boy trouble, then?’ The Time Lady snickered. ‘Oh, I remember those times. Let me give you a piece of advice, Quincey: ask him out the next time you get the opportunity or you will never know that he likes you too. Look at Theta and me.’

The Doctor glanced at her upon the mention of his old nickname. ‘Wasn’t it me who asked you out?’

‘No, Doctor, it wasn’t. You _kissed_ me, but you didn’t _ask me out_. You were such a milksop sometimes, back then.’ Missy walked to him, the palm of her hand brushing against the cold material of the console. She locked gazes with him. ‘In fact, you still are when it comes to relationships.’

‘I am not a _milksop_!’ There was repugnance wrapped around the word. ‘I don’t know who was the raven-haired boy who ran away when I said I wanted to spend eternity with him.’ The look they shared was more intense, and the Doctor’s voice was softer now.

‘I don’t know who was the blond boy who cried when I came back.’ Missy was very close to him now.

Q cleared his throat. ‘Do you two want to be alone?’ He locked and pocketed his mobile. He couldn’t spend all day trying to catch signal and watching Bond. There was a fine line between concern and unhealthy obsession he was still conscious enough not to cross, thank you very much.

‘Sorry, I—we never talk about the past,’ the Doctor said quietly. He stepped away from Missy. ‘Let’s head outside. I’ll do something about the connection later.’

‘It’s fine, really, I will live without knowing of every move the agent makes.’ There was a little too much truth in the sarcasm. Q smiled and walked outside, smoothing his tie.

Hyde Park was, indeed, the same, with the exception of clothes people wore and a hoverboard or two. And a few odd-looking bicycles he might take inspiration in while designing new toys for his agents.

Wait… was this how all of the things came to existence?

 

‘See you again, sometimes,’ said the Doctor, leaning against the console.

Q held the door open and turned round. ‘Next Saturday, 12 AM.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ the Doctor raised an eyebrow.

‘Come next Saturday. And the one after that. Let’s make these trips a regularity,’ Q proposed. Travelling through time and space with the weirdest couple in the universe was becoming a part of his life—a part that gave him a sense of higher purpose. This was beyond running Q-Branch and fawning over an impossible crush. This was meaningful.

And the best thing about these adventures was that no one ever noticed he was gone because technically, he was never gone for more than twenty minutes. It would remain a secret, his and only his forever. It would be something no one would take from him.

The Doctor pressed two buttons. ‘See you next Saturday then, Q,’ he said with a smile. Missy waved her freshly manicured hand at him. He re-entered his bedroom and slammed the door behind him, ready to watch the TARDIS leave.

 

* * *

 

The fifth time, the Doctor and Missy were late.

 

Q was munching on a pack of vinegar crisps while looking out of the window, half expecting to see the TARDIS and half praying for the Geneva-Gatwick airliner 007 sat on to emerge from the dark clouds and go for the landing. It shouldn’t be delayed, last time he checked.

Tesla leapt on the windowsill, using a cardboard box and chest of drawers as a springboard. He waggled his tail slowly, demanding his master’s attention. When he failed to get it, he sat down and gazed out of the window. Q took another mouthful of crisps and crunched at them loudly.

Eyes fixed on the sky, he said, ‘They forgot about us, didn’t they? Always busy touring every nook and cranny of the universe, they forget about someone like me.’ Another three crisps ended up in his mouth. He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘And Bond doesn’t give a damn about me besides an occasional flirt to boost his insatiate ego. I’m stupidly fooling myself into thinking he would ever go on a date with me. I’m bloody talking to my cat with mouth full of crisps!’

Therewith, he fished more out of the packet. Tesla emitted a quiet meow as if he wanted to reply.

An aeroplane cut the skies a minute or so later, descending to land at Gatwick. There was another, but it headed for Cardiff or the likes, judging by its trajectory and steady height. Q sighed. He hated flying. The TARDIS was different, somehow.

He finished up his snack and after washing his hands, he turned the telly on as background noise. There would always be myriads of bad news to worry about on top of things. He could as well fix himself a cuppa to enjoy while he waited. For what exactly, he wasn’t sure.

Q shuffled to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He grabbed his favourite brand of Earl Grey and took milk from the fridge. What mug was it today, _Star Trek_ or _Viva La Pluto_? He randomly chose one from his huge collection and prepared his tea. He laid it on the counter and went over to the table. Again, he waited, but at least he knew it would be over once the kettle started to whistle.

That was three minutes later. Though, there were two sounds resounding at the same time: the high-pitched wheeze of the kettle, and a doorbell. Who could want something from him at such hour on a Saturday? He turned off the cooker and wended his way to the front door.

Gingerly, Q looked through the spyhole. Relief pervaded him immediately; the Doctor stood at his doorstep, pacing around. He only wore a dotted T-shirt, which was unusual by all means, but Q assumed they were maybe going to a warm planet. He opened the door.

‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ he said. The Doctor briskly turned round. ‘Come in.’

‘Q! Fhthaliliono’n is waiting!’ The Doctor came in. Q returned to the kitchen. ‘It’s the planet of eternal summer, where suns shine 32 hours a day and ice cream is for free! I thought you could appreciate a change after all those years in England, what do you say?’

The Doctor didn’t show any signs of acknowledging his belated arrival. Perhaps the regulator did not work as pristinely as they had thought. Or he simply forgot.

‘That sounds lovely, but I do prefer the grey dampness of London.’ Q poured hot water and milk over his tea and sprinkled it with brown sugar. ‘Perhaps we could visit a planet with average temperature around 20 degrees, I would appreciate that more. Tea?’

‘No, thank you,’ said the Time Lord. ‘I know just the right place, then. Peladon! I haven’t seen the queen for a while.’

Q sipped at his tea. He laid the mug aside to go put the milk back in the fridge. ‘What about someplace you’ve never been to before?’ he suggested.

‘Well, I suppose we could go to Iliria, then. I’ve heard they make the best cookies in the galaxy,’ he grinned and took a gulp of Q’s Earl Grey. ‘They would go together with the tea.’

He disappeared in the door and ran down the stairs. The TARDIS was parked outside.

Q drank the tea as quickly as he could drink something as hot and turned the TV off. He unplugged his mobile from the charger and pocketed it. He laced his oxfords hastily and put his khaki anorak on top of the shirt he’s had on since the morning, and then he could finally run after the Doctor with a bunch of keys in his hand.

The TARDIS was parked round the corner, standing out in her blue beauty. The door was unlocked. The Doctor strode to the console and entered the coordinates of Iliria.

Q didn’t spot Missy anywhere, but her voice was there, coming from upstairs. ‘Hello, Quincey. How did the date go?’ she asked. Q followed the voice but couldn’t find her still.

‘There was no date,’ he replied. It wasn’t that simple.

Missy spoke from somewhere near the bookcase. ‘Now I should probably ask why, but I don’t care, it was just a clever dissemblance. Get over it.’ She was as though walking closer to Q, her voice drifting in the air. ‘I’ve repaired your invisible watch, dear.’

So that was why he couldn’t see her. Time Lords had invisible watches. Of course they did.

He was suddenly reminded why R&D abandoned that kind of gizmo.

She materialised out of thin air, holding the Doctor from behind by his upper arms. She pressed a quick kiss on his cheek and let go of him. She took the watch off her wrist and placed it on the console.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked the Doctor. She walked to the side panel and pressed some buttons.

‘Iliria, present time.’ The Doctor pressed another set of buttons. The rotors started to spin around and lights blinked. Q leant against the railings despite the presence of a chair on the other side of the room.

Missy tutted. ‘Iliria? Such a boring planet, that one, I think I’ll pass.’

The Doctor looked up from the controls. They shared another intense gaze. Those two were all about intense gazes, Q had noticed. ‘I’d have to lock you up, then. Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. Do as you must,’ she nodded resignedly. She returned to the main console and pulled a red lever, then a blue one.

The excited spark has gone from the Doctor’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Missy.’

He pulled the largest lever, and the TARDIS landed. When he made sure they were indeed on Iliria via the scanner, he typed in some information about “Protocol 3”.

‘We’ll return soon. Possibly.’

‘Enjoy the Rock of Boredom, boys. Bring me a biscuit.’ Missy blew the Doctor a kiss and picked up a book she had dropped on the floor.

Q and the Doctor, in whose eyes still dozed some kind of sorrow, left the TARDIS, walking towards a brand new adventure (or, a giant biscuit festival at a giant biscuit market where they came across several deaths by poisoned biscuits, which turned out to be a grand conspiracy against the royal family they had to put a stop to).

 

* * *

 

The sixth time, they were even later. Far later than Q originally anticipated.

They came with a surprise that changed his life in greater dimensions he could imagine.

 

It was 12 o’clock. The Doctor hasn’t appeared in Q’s flat or near it yet. Q resorted to doing some work on MI6’s servers and making himself a cup of tea.

It was 1:14 when he went to the loo and made another cuppa to go with the coding; there was more to do than he thought, as ever. It was work for a long time. There were no signs of the TARDIS still. But he had arrived round two the last time, so Q didn’t worry about it.

It was well after two when his stomach rumbled too loudly, and he took a chicken-on-pickle sandwich and some lettuce as a poor lunch. This time, he drank a bottle of ale with it. He tipped a tin of fish out into a bowl for Tesla and poured him some water. The endless lines of code were exhausting him, so he thought he could catch up with _The Flash_ before the Time Lords arrive. He’s only seen six episodes of the show so far because the Double-Ohs _had to_ cause trouble.

He was halfway through episode 10 when the flat resounded with the time machine’s creaking. Q immediately pressed pause and laid the laptop on the unoccupied end of his sofa. As he sat up, the pillows behind his back fell on the floor. He picked them up, drained the cold contents of his mug, and got up.

This time, as he soon found out, the TARDIS landed in the kitchen. It was a very small kitchen, for the record, so small the box had to materialise around his table. Burnt spots disfigured the blue paint, and the TARDIS shook from time to time. Sinister bells tolled inside.

‘Where have you been? It’s five o’clock!’ he shouted as if the TARDIS was a badly behaved agent. He opened the door energetically. ‘And would you mind telling me where the hell is my ta—’

He came to a halt. In front of him stood a child. She was a little girl, not more than six years old, with chocolate hair and shiny blue eyes just like James’—or Missy’s. Was she who Q thought and feared she was?

‘Who are you?’ she asked curiously. Her accent was Scottish, just like the Doctor and Missy’s. She scrutinised him with her glacial gaze, intentionally keeping him out of the TARDIS.

‘I travel with the Doctor and Missy. My name is Andrew, but I usually go by Q. Who are you?’ Q’s voice was softer but cautious. He felt like she was going to give him a scolding and send him home after he’d come with another report on missing appurtenance.

‘My name is Veraledaiivalter, but you can call me Vera,’ she replied. She still didn’t go out of his way. Q saw the Doctor approach them with a smile. He also saw that his hair was shorter, and he discarded the blue coat. He had a similar black one and a paint-stained white T-shirt.

He said something in a very strangely sounding tongue to her. Q didn’t understand a word of it despite the translation matrix; it was Gallifreyan, the only language it never translated. The girl stepped aside, looking at the Doctor, and ran to the console.

‘Your table is right here,’ he said and pointed at the piece of furniture standing in the console room. There were the chairs, too. ‘Listen, Q, we can’t go anywhere today. We got a bit caught in the middle of a Dalek battle. The TARDIS can’t fly in this state, it needs serious repairs.’

Vera picked up a satchel from the ground and ran back to them. Missy shouted from the corridors, ‘The cloister bell is ringing, Doctor, we must leave!’

‘Yes, the engines are starting to collapse, so we don’t have much time. Earth might explode,’ the Doctor explained. He picked the girl up gently with a practised move.

‘What exactly are you trying to tell me, Doctor?’ There was a catch. He wasn’t that idiotic.

The Doctor’s face was grave. ‘We need to leave Vera with you for a moment, Q. She’s not safe in the TARDIS until the core is stable. You are the only person Missy even remotely trusts.’

‘Is that why you were late?’ Q asked. He backed into his kitchen. His eyes and voice were matter-of-fact. ‘How long has it been?’ When the Doctor remained silent, he repeated his question. ‘How long?’

‘Eight years,’ the Doctor whispered. He was ashamed. He looked at his daughter. ‘Sweetie, you are going to stay with Uncle Q until the TARDIS stabilises and repairs all damage on the time engines. Be good and don’t kill his cat.’

She nodded. ‘I understand. But I still think in comparison to the Daleks, the TARDIS isn’t that dangerous.’

Were all Time Children (or how to call them) so smart? Q wondered. She reminded him of himself when he was six.

‘I know. But we can’t put your life in jeopardy again; you are too precious to the whole universe. You are the beginning of Gallifrey’s new age, Vera, the proof that there is light in everyone.’ He kissed her cheek and put her back down. The bells were still ringing, and he was significantly nervous. He hid it behind a smile. ‘We really have to go now, sweetie. Be back before you say Raxacoricofallapatorius.’

‘Okay.’ Vera stepped out of the TARDIS and waved at the Doctor. The lantern atop the box flickered again, and noises that clearly weren’t a good omen reverberated around it.

Then the TARDIS disappeared, leaving Q and the little Time Lady alone in his messy flat. Well, this wasn’t what Q expected to ever happen in his life. He looked at her.

‘Raxacoricofallapatorius,’ she said. Then again. ‘Raxacoricofallapatorius.’

The TARDIS did not reappear. The Doctor lied. ‘Hmm. That happens. They left me in the Presidential Palace once. My father is Lord President, you know?’

The Doctor hasn’t mentioned that. ‘Really?’

‘Uh-huh. He has kicked Rassilon out and claimed the seat was his since he’s technically won the war,’ Vera confirmed her claim proudly.

She came to sit on a chair and plucked three grapes from a bunch lying on the table. She inspected them and threw them in her mouth. ‘This is good,’ she noted. She stole a few more grapes.

Q picked up the small bag she has dropped on the floor, learning it was heavier than it seemed. ‘I’ll put this on the sofa over there,’ he informed her. Vera did not show any concern. ‘Do you want anything else?’

‘More of this, please,’ she pointed at the grapes. She’s eaten almost all of them already.

‘These were my last; I’d have to pop in the shop.’ He thought of doing the shopping before anyway, at least he had a reason to do it now. ‘Do you want to come with me, Vera?’

Even if she did not, he wouldn’t leave a child alone in his home, a Time Lady in particular.

‘Why not.’ The girl hopped off the chair. She looked at Q expectantly. Her eyes were wide open.

‘You want to go right now?’ he raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know what he was thinking.

‘Self-evidently. I thought that was the point,’ she stated as if he was utterly stupid. Which, to be honest, he probably was in her eyes. He got to experience how others must have felt around him now, the realisation punching him in the face.

‘Yes, let’s go to the shop. Let me just grab my bag.’

Q laid Vera’s bag on the sofa. He went to the entrance hall, followed by her, and put on his shoes. The girl stood there in anticipation without making a move. Her hands were grasped behind her back as Missy often did it. In a second Q took his messenger bag, ready to head out. He didn’t need an umbrella or a jacket; it was unusually sunny these days.

He opened the door. He held out his hand for Vera to catch. ‘Come along.’

She took his hand hesitantly. Hers was cold. ‘Vera, are you cold? Do you want something?’ She was wearing a purple short-sleeved T-shirt and a black skirt.

‘No, our body temperature is lower than humans’, silly,’ she answered in the same exasperated tone of hers. She was probably tired of his questions.

‘I apologise for my silliness, Your Majesty. Let’s go.’ He smiled and headed out of the flat, down the two flights of stairs, and on the street.

The nearest grocery shop was a Sainsbury’s Local on St John Street where he usually did the shopping on his way from work. One of the cashiers, Samantha, remembered him as a regular customer. She greeted him with a smile, asking who the pretty young lady was.

‘She’s my niece,’ he lied and returned the smile. He took the plastic shopping trolley.

(He really, _really_ , tried not to think about the fact that if he and Bond had a child, they would probably look like this. His dark hair and Bond’s blue eyes. If it were possible to have a child that would be biologically both of theirs. Maybe it was on Gallifrey or some other planet.)

In the course of half an hour, they got what they needed, more or less. Q took a whole kilogramme of grapes for Vera and some grape jelly, too. He also grabbed a few cans of cat food, some more fruit and vegetables, toast bread, croissants, milk, a jar of strawberry jam, lots of biscuits, and some more necessary things worth nearly £26.

Vera had said she’s never been shopping before, and that she’d enjoyed it greatly. She’d said that on Gallifrey and in the TARDISes, they usually have machines that can produce protein bars that taste like anything you want: tomatoes, spaghetti, apple crumble, etc. Q had said he would need that too sometimes, at work. He often didn’t have time to pop out for lunch.

On the way home back to Q’s flat, he carried all the bags, and Vera ate her grapes. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the Doctor and Missy forget to feed her. She consumed an entire bunch on the way.

She mercifully took two of the three bags from him when he had to unlock the house’s front door. She held them like they were as light as a feather; she was strong as much as clever. And observant.

‘There’s blood on the stairs, Q,’ Vera said, pointing at rather fresh red drops staining the stairs with her finger. There was one on every other step.

Q’s acquired spy instincts fired up. He tensed. ‘Yes, indeed.’

He stepped closer to the girl. He knew _she_ would probably end up saving _his_ life if they had to fight an armed intruder, but it the move was only natural. His right hand reached into his bag. After a while of rummaging through it, he removed a paralyser. Slowly, he began the ascent with the weapon in his hand.

‘Be careful,’ he said to Vera. She mimicked his prudent gait.

The trail of blood led to the first floor. None of the doors seemed to have been damaged, and none of the neighbours seemed to have noticed anything. Q and Vera followed the drops to his flat. That was what he feared.

He quickly assessed the entrance. The alarm was shut off, but otherwise, the door looked intact. Whoever was or had been inside had picked the lock and disabled his security. They knew about all of Q’s safety measures and had some experience with breaking and entering, apparently. Someone from MI6, or MI6’s enemy.

‘Shh,’ he gestured at Vera. Then he unlocked the door as silently as he could, taser still in hand. The plastic bags were bit of a problem in the matter of silence because they rustled with every move, but he managed to move as little as possible.

In the same careful, silent manner, he opened the door. The blood continued to the living room. No damage visible in the hall. He vigilantly followed it, Vera hot on his heels. The girl wasn’t afraid whatsoever. Whatever a Dalek was, it must have been bloody terrifying.

They arrived in the living room. There was a person lying on the sofa, wrapped in his striped blanket. The grip around the taser tightened as Q approached the person.

He couldn’t see them properly at first, but now, five feet close, he noticed the shortly cut blond hair sticking out from underneath the green and yellow stripes. He lowered the taser and relaxed. It was James Bond.

‘Bond,’ he said drily. ‘Please explain what the f—hell happened and what you’re doing on my sofa, leaving a trail of blood behind and scaring me to death.’

The agent shifted and groaned in pain. ‘I didn’t know where else to go, Q,’ he answered in a very weak, raspy voice. Q already put the bag on the coffee table and rushed to him. He uncovered him. His shirt was torn on the side and soaked with blood; his face looked none the better.

‘I’ve heard Six has a Medical Department.’ Bond growled again. Q discarded his messenger bag as well and got on his knees. ‘Your stubbornness _will_ be the end of you one day, Bond. Don’t think I will be here to help you the next time.’

‘Already thinking of the next time, are you, Q?’ Bond’s lips stretched in a smile. His face was smudged with blood—might be his, might be someone else’s—and dirt. Despite it, he still looked beautiful.

‘Don’t talk,’ Q commanded. He unbuttoned his shirt carefully. ‘Actually, first tell me what had happened and then don’t talk.’

‘Darton.’ A bloke who supplied ISIL’s adherents in Britain with weaponry; he was the object of Bond’s latest mission. (Technically, it was MI5’s mission, but he thought he could help them. Well.) ‘He shot me with my own gun, shoved me in a car, and intended to dump my body on a scrapyard. I escaped using my tie pin.’

‘Ah, the usual, then. Twenty years of service, and yet you still can’t seem to figure out that you and your excessive pride aren’t almighty.’ The shot wound looked ugly. It kept bleeding. ‘How do you even know where I live, Bond?’

‘You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?’ He smiled again. Then he groaned silently.

Q got up and strode to the kitchen to retrieve the first aid kit. He completely forgot about Vera in the spur of the moment. She was unpacking the bags and laying groceries on the table.

‘Who is he?’ she asked innocently.

Q wondered what to answer. She must have known who he was, though. Her parents knew.

‘That’s James Bond, one of my agents. He’s the most reckless and rash of them all. He never returns the equipment I supply him with, never fills his paperwork, never goes to Medical, never does what he is told and does what he isn’t supposed to. This,’ Q waved his arm in his direction, ‘is what he does.’

‘Why are you helping him, then? It’s not logical.’

Vera finished unpacking the shopping and threw the bags into the bin. Strangely enough, she knew exactly where he kept recycled waste. Q sighed. He finally found the medical kit he came there for.

‘I have no idea, girl,’ he admitted honestly.

‘Yes, you do,’ she snickered just like her mother. The clever minx. Could Time Lords read one’s subconscious mind on top of telepathy?

‘Put the meat in the freezer, would you?’ he said and returned to the blond agent. Halfway to the sofa, he shouted, ‘I hope you do realise I’ll have to clean the carpet and sofa and wipe the floor in the entire house, 007.’

Bond’s shirt was completely removed now; he did it himself. A bloodstain was forming on the upholstery.

‘At least you’ll think of me while you do it,’ he replied. Even in such state, he was sarcastic. Q found it charming, although he’d never say that aloud. Not in front of him.

‘Do you want me to pull the bullet out of you without anaesthesia?’ he shot back. He took a cotton pad and disinfectant. If Bond continued to behave the way he did, he wouldn’t hesitate to fulfil his threat. Having knelt again, Q applied the tincture around the wound.

‘If it pleases you,’ Bond replied, grinding his teeth.

Q laid the used pad on the table and prepared a pair of pincers. He looked Bond in the eye, holding the pincers in the air threateningly.

‘Do shut up,’ he said seriously. In a softer tone, he added, ‘You’re only exhausting yourself.’

Then he laid the tool aside and pulled on latex gloves. He took a sterile syringe and a bottle of anaesthetic. Bond was one hell of a lucky man that Q’s medical kit was so well-equipped. With a pull of his teeth, he tore the syringe’s wrapper apart. He pierced the thin lid on the bottle and drew in its contents.

‘I think I don’t need to say this will sting.’ Upon the warning, he injected the local anaesthetic into the flesh on Bond’s stomach.

Bond hissed. ‘Almost sounds like you care about my well-being, Q,’ he teased.

‘I said something about talking, 007.’ The syringe ended up next to the cotton pad. Pulling the bullet out was next, and then he just needed to stitch the wound.

Suddenly, a child’s voice came from behind them. Q didn’t hear Vera enter the room. ‘You were right. He _doesn’t_ do what he’s told.’ She giggled.

Bond slightly lifted his head to see who has spoken. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Who is this, Q?’

Q turned round. Vera picked up the plastic bag he had laid on the coffee table. She said nothing to the matter of pulling a bullet out of a man’s body while he lies on the sofa—the only thing she told Q was that the meat was in the freezer.

‘Lovely, thank you, Vera,’ he nodded at her, wordlessly telling her to leave. Then he turned to Bond again. ‘She’s a friend’s daughter. Coincidentally, I’m kind of babysitting her today.’

Her gaze was just as piercing and fiery as Missy’s. ‘I am hardly a baby, Q.’

‘“To babysit someone” is a verb. It means that I’m looking after you when your parents are away,’ he explained while fully focused on the piece of metal embedded in Bond—luckily, it has missed all vital organs. It was almost out. ‘It’s the same as “kidnap”, really; you can be kidnapped even when you are not a kid anymore. English is often absurd.’

‘That’s true,’ she affirmed. ‘It’s nice to meet you, James Bond.’

‘Likewise,’ he said. He tried to smile. Vera left for the kitchen with the bag full of biscuits in hand.

Q extracted the bullet and inspected it. ‘There you go. A .9mm calibre, our custom serial number, fired from medium range. Well done, 007.’

Q carefully laid it on the cotton pad and exchanged the pliers for a suturing needle, which he expertly threaded.

‘I couldn’t have known he’s got a black belt in karate on top of the gold medal from Sydney, Q.’

‘Yes, you could, if you’d read the file. Hold still.’

Q made the first stitch; it will need two. It won’t be as pretty as done by a doctor, but Bond was the last one to complain about that. The scar on his shoulder was a proof. Bond looked at the ceiling. He put one hand behind his head, which doesn’t exactly count as holding still. Q made the second stitch.

‘She’s unusually clever, the girl. Reminds me of you.’

‘Did I hear a compliment?’ he raised a teasing eyebrow, the sarcasm in his words matching Bond’s.

They could be so perfect for each other, in some other world. Q liked to play with the thought they might be so perfect for each other in this one as well.

Bond put on yet another flirtatious smile. ‘If that is what you want to hear,’ he said.

Q got up and took the bloody suturing kit to the kitchen to wash it. So many clever replies ran around his head, yet he remained silent. He threw the gloves and the rest of the waste into the bin, and washed and disinfected the pliers and needle. Vera sat quietly at the table and held a transparent piece of Plexiglas in her hands; it was some sort of a tablet. Those convoluted Gallifreyan circles swirled up and down on it.

Bond has lost some blood, so he needed hydration. A beer wasn’t a good idea even though he’d surely welcome something stronger than that, so he opted for tea. He might as well make two cups. For the fourth time that day, he put the kettle on.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, Vera?’ he asked the Time Lady when he pulled the mugs out of the cupboard. She didn’t bother t look up from her tablet.

‘Thank you, but no,’ she said.

Bond was right about her being unusually clever—though, he had no idea whose daughter she was and where she was from. Not that Q knew any better. He’s met her parents only six times, and about their planet, he’s merely heard.

‘Just tell me if you need anything, alright? I’m going to check up on Bond now. If the kettle starts to whistle in the meantime, please turn it off, it’s annoying.’

‘Well, in that case, I’ll leave it on,’ she snickered. The urge to roll his eyes was too strong.

The Double-Oh hasn’t moved a bit. His eyes mesmerised the white ceiling and cracks that furrowed it, and his breathing was sound. The bloodstain on Q’s sofa was getting bigger. Tesla has come to look what was going on, too. He stood on an armchair opposite of the sofa and glared daggers at Bond.

‘Tesla, stay where you are. Bond, do you think you could take a shower while I clean up this mess?’ Q threw his bag on the other armchair and pushed the coffee table aside. The wooden floor was creaking loudly.

‘Well, I think I’ll need assistance, Q. I can’t shower on my own at this state.’

‘That wasn’t even a good line,’ Q snorted. ‘Just get up and go. The bathroom is over there.’ He pointed at a door on the other side of the room, next to bookcases and a large papyrus standing in the corner. ‘And please take the mop and a few rags out of the cupboard and put it at the door while you’re in there.’

‘Yessir.’

For the first time ever (as far as Q knew), Bond did what he was told and shuffled to the bathroom, leaving quite the view for Q. The tanned skin on his back radiated in the rare beams of sunlight, and his muscles moved slowly and smoothly like a venomous serpent’s body. He knew Q was staring at him, and Q wasn’t even ashamed.

When the man went out of sight, Q seized the blanket and removed pillowcases from his three small pillows. He will take them to the kitchen when the water will have boiled. He was unimaginably glad for the old leather sofa he had now—imagine needing to clean blood from one with cloth upholstery.

The kettle began to whistle, but Vera turned the cooker off in spite of herself.

The lock clicked. It was safe to go and take the mop. But first, he took the laundry. He put it in the washing machine with a gel capsule and set the longest programme. The stains would wash out of it; he had experience. After that, he made the tea. Vera sat still on her chair, reading on her Gallifreyan tablet. Truthfully, it looked as though she hasn’t moved a centimetre in order to turn off the burner. Perhaps she didn’t need to.

He carefully took the full mugs to the living room and placed them on the table. Steam rose from them, and the typical smell of black tea filled the room. He took a deep breath and drew the smell in. Tesla hopped off the armchair and danced round Q’s feet.

‘Get out of my way, Tesla,’ he told him. ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

The cat listened to him.

Hurriedly, he fetched the bucket with the mop. The sound of water dripping onto porcelain came from behind the door. There was one thing Q hadn’t thought of: he’d need to fill up the bucket with water in the sink, which was full of dishes. Oh well.

The bubbly water almost spilt on the carpet next to the blood when Q walked. The bucket was either too full or too small. It was very close, but in the end, both the floor and Q remained dry. He soaked a piece of microfibre cloth in the water and started with the sofa.

The water in the bathroom ceased running soon. Then Q realised Bond had no other clothes than the dirty ones he waltzed into his flat in. He had to find something for him before he walks out of that bathroom with a towel wrapped round his waist and makes the atmosphere too thick to exist in in the course of seconds. Thus he dropped the cloth into the bucket with a splash and ran to the bedroom. Surely, there would be a T-shirt and a pair of oversized trackies that would do him fine.

He chose a plain grey T-shirt and emerald trousers he sometimes used as pyjama bottoms.

‘Bond, I put some clothes for you behind the door,’ he told the agent after three knocks on the door. Then he returned to the living room. The sooner he gets down to it, the sooner it will be over, right?

Before he resumed the cleaning, he checked on Vera. Tesla was with her now—what did the Doctor say about killing his cat? But it seemed he did not need to worry, for she was playing with him with a joyous smile on her face. She was talking to him, too. Q couldn’t help but beam at the sight.

Bond was already occupying one of the armchairs when Q came back. Stealth was, indeed, one of his better merits and abilities.

‘I made you a cup of tea,’ said Q. His eyes flew to the coffee table. ‘Drink it, that’s an order.’

‘Will your tea make me better?’ Bond’s blue orbs locked with his in an intense stare. He was making Q uncomfortable with it on purpose. Q blinked.

‘No, it won’t, but it’ll keep your mouth shut for a while if it’s any good.’

Q took a gulp of the tea himself before he took the rag, wrung it out, and wiped the last of the blood clean.

After a while of silence broken by nothing but breath and a sound of the rug rubbing against the carpet, he asked, ‘Are you alright? Didn’t you pull any stitches?’

‘Fit as a fiddle, Q.’

Bond’s gaze followed every move Q made. He was sure there was a blush spreading across his cheeks, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it; any attempts would only make things worse. If the agent’s aim was to embarrass Q to the bones, he has succeeded.

‘Do you intend to continue staring at me for all day?’ he asked. He washed the cloth out aggressively, furrowing his brow.

‘Don’t be ashamed, Q. You are quite a pleasing sight to stare at.’ Bond got up and walked two steps closer to Q kneeling on the ground. ‘But I must say this isn’t exactly how I imagined having you on your knees before me.’

Q would swear he was as red as a tomato. He noticed he has quit scouring the stains. _Bond has... given that a thought._ Nevertheless, he had to stay cool and above the situation.

‘If you thought I would polish your fancy shoes, then you were wrong,’ he replied with a smug smile. Irony dripped from his words like water from the cloth. He knew Bond knew he had got his innuendo very well.

‘Why do you always have to be like this, Q,’ teased Bond. ‘You’re no fun.’

Q opened his mouth to utter another dry note, but someone else spoke first. Vera. ‘Obviously, he’s in love with you, but he’s worried you will never feel the same and only use and discard him as another trophy you’ve conquered.’

Both men looked at the intruding girl. Her arms were folded, and she rolled her eyes. ‘Or so he said.’

Except he’s never said that to her. They were his thoughts. He frowned at the Time Lady.

Q rose to his feet, eyes fixed on the girl. He wanted to explain that _certain_ things are not to be said aloud, ever, let alone in the presence of the object of such thoughts, but Bond blocked the way with his body and caught his hand in his.

‘Q, is that true?’

‘There’s no point in lying anyway, is there?’ Q refused to look him in the eye. ‘You’re a bloody spy, Bond; figure it out.’ Q wrenched his hand off Bond’s grip and grabbed the mop. He couldn’t stay in the room any longer.

‘James,’ said Bond.

Q turned to look at him. He wrung the mop out. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Call me James. And come to dinner with me tomorrow. I’m serious.’ His face spoke in favour of that.

‘And yet I don’t believe you.’ With the blue mop in hand, Q stormed out of the living room. He headed to the corridor.

‘Q,’ Bond called after him. ‘Q! Stop and listen to me.’

Q came to a halt. Adrenaline and irritation still circled his veins, and he looked as if he was about to paralyse Bond with his taser if whatever he was to say wasn’t good enough for him. Vera watched the exchange amusedly.

‘You have one minute to say whatever absurd excuse you come up with, and then I’m going to go and wipe your blood off my staircase.’

Bond crossed the distance between them. ‘Q. You know I’ve always had bad luck in relationships and never liked to commit myself to anyone. Vesper Lynd was the only person I’ve ever—what I’m trying to say is that I would be willing to try if you would. I mean it. All the flirting and bantering and your ugly cardigans—you mean something to me, Q.’

Q was dumbfounded. He couldn’t really find any words to say to that. On the inside, he was screaming.

And then Vera stepped in again with her undue cleverness and Scottish accent. ‘Oh for Rassilon’s sake, you two are worse than my parents. He loves you too. Just kiss already.’

‘I think we should listen to the young lady, Q.’

Sometimes, a child’s pure sincerity was what adults needed to find common ground.

Bond’s hand reached for one of Q’s cheeks and cupped it gently. He ran a thumb across the small dimple forming round his lips—and before he could do anything, Q’s lips pressed against his. The kiss was short and innocent and tasted like tea, but it was definitely a good start.

‘Your minute is over. I need to clean the stairs now,’ Q said with a smile that matched Bond’s. He stole another short kiss from him and pulled away. ‘And my cardigans aren’t ugly.’

However, he hardly made a step. The TARDIS’ wheezing broke the air.

‘Oh shit. Not now!’ Q exclaimed when he realised this was the worst of moments to come back. Bond was there, in his flat, in the same room, next to Q, around whom the box was materialising. It didn’t just land; it took him and Vera with him.

Bond looked round in confusion. He stared at the semi-transparent walls and the column in the middle of a hexagonal room and then at Q and the two people who stood next to a control panel of sorts.

‘What the hell is going on, Q? Who are they, and what is this?’

‘They,’ Q looked at the Doctor and Missy accusingly, ‘are Vera’s parents. I think I owe you one hell of an explanation…’

**Author's Note:**

> okay but can yOU IMAGINE MISSY IN ACTUAL 21ST CENTURY CLOTHES WHAT AN AESTHETIC
> 
> Also, I'm writing those 8 years we don't know about. I myself am curious what happened with the Daleks and how exactly Vera came to existence (um). It'll be purely Twissy again.


End file.
